


The Sins of the Father

by Lhyrre



Series: To Escape the Web, One Must Become the Spider [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Dorne, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Gen, House Martell, House Targaryen, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Jaime Lannister Needs a Hug, Lyanna Stark is the Knight of the Laughing Tree, M/M, Multi, Neurodiversity, Queen Elia Martell, Reincarnation, Rhaegar Targaryen Being an Idiot, Rhaenys is a dramatic little shit, Tourney at Harrenhal, Unreliable Narrator, elia is an angel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27585925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhyrre/pseuds/Lhyrre
Summary: A year before the fateful day that will change the fate of Westeros, Rhaenys Targeryen wakes with the memories of a past life. Now, it’s a race against time as Rhaenys tries to find some way -- any way -- to help her new family survive the war she knows is coming. Will she be able to fight the tides of fate?Crossposted to FF.net
Relationships: Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: To Escape the Web, One Must Become the Spider [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016493
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	1. The Awakening

  


_ They say that most babies and children remember their past lives for a little while. My case is identical to everyone else’s, in that way. But how many remember? Perhaps there are more like me, who carry their past lives with them like a ball and a chain.  _

_ If there are, they don’t speak of it. _

  


Rhaenys was an unsettling baby. Her dark eyes were watchful, tracking every move that anyone made around her. Her every sound was full of intention, though it took her longer than expected to speak.Her mother claimed that each of her cries were as distinct as words, with occasional odd sounds and gibberish language. Either way, her caretakers rarely had to guess at what the demanding child wanted.

She didn’t remember much of this, of course. An infant’s brain is not developed enough to hold coherent thought or episodic memory. That part of the brain finishes forming at around two, with solid episodic memory not appearing until almost seven. 

The distinct moment when Rhaenys truly awakened was when she was nearly four. It was late in the afternoon, where the sun turns the golden that is most complimentary on human skin. A rectangle of that golden light poured over her as she played with a small wooden horse, endlessly fascinated at the mechanism that allowed it to roll and the vibration that small bumps in the rich carpet added to the sensation. She was wearing a dress that her father favored, a rich dark velvet trimmed with violet silk. Entirely inappropriate for a toddler her age, but with money and power comes a lack of common sense. 

A spike of pain ripped through her skull so suddenly that she couldn’t even scream. Instead, she collapsed to the carpet, bile rising in her throat. she remembered her death, then, a death with tubes down her throat and a thirst she couldn’t quench, with coughs that racked her body so hard that all her muscles seized up at once. 

She remembered wrapping herself around a warm body and covering a face in kisses. She remembered drinking glasses of wine and crying after her Mom said something cruel and then told her that she ‘took it wrong’.

The jumble of consciousness and memory crashed over her like a wave on a windy shore, sweeping her and tumbling her head-over heels into a life once lived. She remembered, and remembered, and  _ remembered _ . 

When she came to herself, days later, there was a difference in the way that she stood, in the expressions that she made. It was impossible to face the world with the pure innocence of a child again. The pain and experience of a lifetime wasn’t something that could leave her untouched by cynicism. She felt a pang of sadness for her new parents, that they would lose the experience of introducing the world to their first child in such a way.

Parents. Rhaenys opened her eyes.

Mama had been by her bedside the entire time and she had the half-moon shadows under her eyes to prove it. She and Rhaenys looked much alike, with the clouds of dark, unruly hair and soft brown eyes. Her skin was a touch tawnier than Rhaenys’, though, which made her jealous. 

“Mama,” Rhaenys croaked. Her throat burned like she had tried to eat a lemon raw. 

“Rhaenys?” Mama said, throwing her arms around Rhaenys’ neck. Rhaenys’ body lifted up with the force of her hug. Her cheek, as it touched her own, was wet. “Rhaenys, how do you feel?”

Rhaenys wrapped her tiny arms around as much of her as she could. Though she was not the mother from her new memories, her scent and embrace was achingly familiar as ‘Mama’. She could feel her muscles relax into her. “My throat hurts,” Rhaenys said honestly. It did, all the way down to nearly her stomach. 

“I’ll have a servant bring you something for your throat right away,” Mama said briskly, ringing a small bell. A girl appeared, as if summoned by a spell. 

“Your grace,” she said with a curtsy.

“Bring a tonic from the maester, for a sore throat.” Mama’s entire demeanor changed as she spoke to the girl. It was still friendly, but there was an air of command that made her seem ten feet tall. 

“As you wish, your grace,” the girl said with another bow. Rhaenys didn’t hear the door close behind her.

Though this was all standard fare to her experience as Rhaenys, it rang sudden alarm bells for her new memories. The toddler hadn’t known what “your grace” really meant. Now that she was awake and thinking more actively about the world around her, the more her vague memories as Rhaenys seemed stranger and stranger. What kind of place still had exposed stone walls and floors? No technology in her memory, either. The swords glinting at the sides of armed guards with long white cloaks seemed odd too. A renaissance fair? 

No, this place was all Rhaenys had known, in this life. Unless she was on some ren faire-esque commune, perhaps things were different in this time.

“Oh, you’re still tired,” Mama fussed. Her hands pulled the richly brocaded blankets up to Rhaenys’ chin and smoothed back her hair. “Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten properly in days.”

As if on cue, her stomach growled. “Yes, please,” she said.

Mama called another servant for food, and in what seemed like mere minutes, a bowl of soup was in front of Rhaenys. She tried to feed her, but she pulled what she hoped was a stubborn face, wrinkling her nose. “I can feed myself.”

She managed to feed herself and tried to ignore the hurt in Mama’s eyes.

* * *

A few days later, after she had settled into the routine of the castle, Rhaenys finally figured out where she was.

Rhaenys and Father were playing in the central garden, where she hid from him and ran through the maze of trees and bushes until they both collapsed, laughing, in the ferns. She was fairly sure they’d crushed them, but it was good to see him laugh so freely. He had been so sad recently. Sad always. 

Rhaenys wasn’t sure how old she felt -- though she had the memories of that other life, they were more distant, like a movie she had seen before. Some of the memories were as poignant as if she had lived them herself, but less emotionally charged memories didn’t seem to hold the same weight. Though she saw and understood more now, she was settling into something more in-between. Though she had the weight of a lifetime, this world she was in was truly unfamiliar. The wonder of a child was in every human, if you dug deep enough.

“Father, what’s your name?” She asked. It was the kind of question children this age would be asking, once they figured out that words like ‘mama’, ‘father’, or ‘your grace’ weren’t names. 

Father stilled, his white-blonde hair falling into his eyes as he regarded her. Rhaenys wasn’t often at eye-level with Father, so she was milking the time they had now. His eyes were a curious color -- a pale purple, like lilacs. With hair and skin as pale as he was, she assumed he was albino. She followed an account on social media with an albino girl with purple eyes, before.

“Why do you ask, little wren?” he asked, gathering Rhaenys up in his arms.

She snuggled closer. “Just thinking. I have a name, Aegon has a name, and Ser Jamie has a name, but Mama and Father aren’t your names, right?”

Father laughed, and she could feel the rumble where she was cradled against his chest. “Yes, Mama and father aren’t our names.” He just held her for a moment, before setting her down. 

“Rhaenys,” he began, “My name is Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

His name rung like a bell in Rhaenys’ ears, summoning a memory from  _ before _ . Memories that had been fading slowly since she had remembered them. 

_ The teal sweatshirt radiated warmth as I pulled it out of the dryer, carefully folding it and placing it in the laundry basket to carry back to my room. I hadn’t had time to read those books or watch the TV show everyone was talking about -- Game of Thrones -- but I found a bootleg copy of the audiobooks and downloaded them instead. So these days, tales of betrayal, magic, and brutality followed me as I did chores around my house. I didn’t have time to read otherwise -- stupid double major. The first round of laundry had gotten me through the first few chapters, but there were a few names that already hung like ghosts in the background of the story -- Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark, The Mad King… _

Rhaenys stared at the ferns, trying to process this information. Was he named after the book character or something? But the rest of the name was straight out of the book too. Dragonstone sounded like something from a fantasy book, and the seven kingdoms… well, she remembered that much. 

It was still too much to believe. “Is it…” She struggled for the word. One way that she wasn’t faking childishness was that she was still learning the language. “From a story or history?” 

Father smiled again, but this time a little sadder. “I’m named after your grandmother.” 

Rhaenys stared expectantly up at him. 

“Rhaella,” he added belatedly. 

“And I’m named after you!” She chirped. 

He pulled Rhaenys onto his lap. “No, child. Though I am named after your grandmother, you are named after a Queen. Your ancestor, the great Queen Rhaenys.”

Still cradling her against his chest, Father stood and made his way to his solar, where his harp stood against a windowsill. Rhaenys dutifully waved at all the servants and guards as we passed by, but deep down she was still reeling.  _ Queen Rhaenys?  _ That book series had suffused pop culture for a few years of her short life, but it was still a blip on the scale of things that were important to her to remember. How could this be  _ real _ ?

Father settled her on the desk of his solar, where she fidgeted uncomfortably. Every emotion felt too large for this small body, like it would explode out of her at any moment. She wound and unwound a dark curl around her stubby finger and tried not to shake or cry.

Father didn’t notice her nervousness as he strummed at his harp. “Do you want to hear the song of Queen Rhaenys?” he queried. 

All Rhaenys could do was nod. Horror filled her with each melodious paragraph as he serenaded her with a tale that was far too familiar -- of Aegon, his sister-wives, and the conquering of the seven kingdoms. 

As the ballad swelled to a close, the pressure in her chest built to the exploding point, and she burst into tears. Father immediately abandoned the harp to cradle her close to his chest. “What is it, darling? What’s wrong?” 

Rhaenys only sobbed harder, clinging to his chest. Every sob shook her, like a leaf in a hurricane.

The enormity of it felt like it would crush her. She was Rhaenys, daughter of Raegar and Elia. Within a year, maybe two, she would be dead. They would all be dead, in the most brutal and horrible ways possible. Father would abandon them, and Mama, and they would stay a ghost story to haunt Westeros. The fuel for the next half-century of bloodshed.

Rhaenys didn’t want to die. She didn’t want Mama and Father to die. She didn’t want baby Aegon, with his wispy strands of blond hair, to die. 

She cried until she couldn’t, until they had to put her to bed like a limp rag doll.


	2. The Household of the Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys begins to probe the boundaries of her new reality.

Rhaenys dozed in a malaise for almost two days before properly coming to consciousness. While she lay in a daze, she spent some time thinking. As a small child, there was almost nothing she could do to change the outcome of events that were obviously already in motion. Mama had been talking about a tourney for the last week, and had been packing for it for at least three days. She was sure, given her age, that this was  the tourney that ruined everything. 

The more that she turned it over in her head, the more sure she was that there was very little she could do there. She was likely not going to be in attendance at any of the events, given her tender age, and would likely be under close supervision at all times. Even if she  could escape her babysitters, where would she go? How would she survive in a brutally harsh world as a small child? She would have a better chance in the slums outside the castle, where abandoned children survived like packs of feral dogs. Out in the wilderness, or in castles like Harrenhal where everyone knew each other, finding her would be easy, or she would be eaten by the first ravenous animal that came by. 

Even in her old world, kids didn’t survive well on their own. Even preternaturally intelligent ones. Coyotes could snatch small children playing on a porch. What kinds of creatures haunted the forests here? This world was practically inspired by Grimm’s fairy tales, which explicitly warned children to stay out of the woods.

As for the consequences of the tourney, there was no way Rhaenys could keep Rhaegar and Lyanna from meeting, either. Instead, like a horrified onlooker, she could only watch as things unfolded from a distance.

Or do I?

The thought that finally brought Rhaenys out of her deep depression was that, perhaps, like others in her line, she could feign visions of the future. There were Targaryens that had dreams of the future, didn’t they? Perhaps she could… perhaps she did have the same power. Who was to say that my ancestor hadn’t had the same curse as I did? Rhaenys thought. That she hadn’t been burdened with a knowledge of the future in a way that was somewhat different than simply dreaming of it? What if she was reborn here too?

The thought of a chance, no matter how slight, was enough to pull Rhaenys back to reality. 

Again, she woke to Mama in the chair beside her. Mama was napping, her head cushioned on an embroidered pillow that looked as if placed for that particular purpose. Belatedly, she remembered that Mama was still sick herself -- she hadn’t yet recovered from baby Aegon’s birth just a couple months ago. She looked peaceful now, though, so Rhaenys didn’t wish to wake her. 

She slipped out of bed, her nightgown trailing from being caught up in the sheets. On bare feet, she padded to the door and peeked out. 

A gasp sounded from above her as the handmaiden assigned to assist Elia in caring for the children, hovering just outside the door, started. “Princess! You’re awake!” 

Rhaenys shushed her, holding a finger up to her lips. “Mama is sleeping,” she whispered seriously. “She’s very tired.”

The handmaiden crouched down to eye level. She had dark hair, like Rhaenys, and her skin was darker than Mama’s. Rhaenys thought that she must be one of the handmaidens that Mama brought with her from Dorne. “Are you feeling alright, Princess?” She said briskly, bringing the back of her hand to my forehead in the universal method of checking temperature. “You were feverish last night. His grace must have let you play too hard after you were sick before.” Her tone held a distinct undertone of scorn. She didn’t think much of Father, she could tell.

“I’m okay,” Rhaenys whispered. “Hungry, though. Can you bring some food? Can there be cakes?” 

The handmaiden, whose name Rhaenys recalled as being Lady Josalia, smiled. “Well, you must be feeling better if you’re asking for cakes. Go back to bed, Princess, and I’ll bring you up some food.” The scarf covering her head was black lace, pinned into her curls with long pins tipped with beautiful moulded copper beads shaped like flying birds.

“The pins are so pretty,” Rhaenys said, a calculated smile lighting up her face.

Josalia laughed, and touched one. “I’ll put your hair up with one later,” she promised.

“Oh, you don’t have to give it to me,” Rhaenys stuttered. “I just wanted to touch it. What kinds of birds are they?”

Josalia’s smile turned truly fond, then. “You’re very considerate, princess. They are symbols of my house. Cormorants.” 

Rhaenys’ pink mouth formed an ‘O’. “I see. Maybe we can play with them later, Lady Josalia?” 

Josalia smiled again, and with a long finger, tapped Rhaenys on the nose. “If you go back to bed and stay there until the food comes, we can play with the cormorant pins. You can even have one of your own.” 

Rhaenys nodded, and crept back into bed. 

A few hours later, one long, sharp pin was tucked behind Rhaenys’ toy box - the first of many small treasures she carefully hid from her parents. Sharp treasures.

~

Before long, Rhaenys had been moved back into the nursery with her brother. The nursery was painted a sunny yellow, with fanciful scrolling along the edges of the of wallpaper strips that featured dragons spiraling up into the ceiling, where a great, colorful swarm of dragons flew to a Dornish sun. Mama told her that she had commissioned the ceiling when she was pregnant with Rhaenys. 

Apparently her grandfather had hated it. 

What interested Rhaenys more, however, was checking the wood paneling that lined the bottom three feet of the wall. Polished to a dark shine, the moulding at the edges of the panels were fitted so closely together that there seemed to be no gaps. But there was a faint current of air in this room that didn’t seem to come from the windows. It was only noticeable on bare feet, but Rhaenys was  sure there was a secret passageway leading from this room. 

It made sense, too. Why wouldn’t you install a secret passage from the nursery? It was an incredibly valuable place, where the next generation of the ruling family of Westeros was housed. A passageway that could be slipped into would be a perfect way to help further safeguard that. After all, the Red Keep was practically littered with secret passageways.

Once night fell and she and Aegon were finally left alone to sleep, she crept from her bed. 

On hands and knees, she crept to every wooden panel in the room, pressing, picking at edges, and inspecting the floor for telltale scrape marks. She found nothing, except that her fingernails were still baby-soft and could not be used to pry anything open. Her fingertips ached. 

Near the right corner of the room, though, in front of Aegon’s crib, she could feel the slightest draft from underneath one of the floorboards. It didn’t sound hollow, but perhaps air was escaping between floorboards where it was too tightly sealed against the wall. 

She stared at the panel in front of it, cross-legged. Sitting directly in front of the panel, she could distinctly feel the tiniest breath of air from between the floorboards underneath the panel. She held a hand above it, letting it tickle her palm. 

Nothing she tried worked. She pressed the panel, pressed the floorboards, and as a last ditch effort, tried to wedge one of her wedge-shaped blocks into one of the cracks. 

Stubbornly, it didn’t open. 

Rhaenys flopped onto back and scrubbed the heel of her hands against her eyes. It had to open  somehow.

From her new vantage point, though, she saw something odd. Just under Aegon’s crib, there was a strange piece of moulding. It wasn’t fit properly with the corner of the wall. The crib had obviously been anchored there to cover up the design flaw. 

Or had it?

With her wedge-shaped block, Rhaenys managed to pry off the bit of moulding to reveal a sort of switch. It was an odd, lever-type switch that you pressed on one side or another. Cautiously, she pressed one side of the dusty switch.

Nothing happened.

Flat on her belly under Aegon’s crib, she pressed the other side of the switch.

A soft grinding sound came from the wall, and the panel that had frustrated Rhaenys so much pushed inwards, about an inch.

She pressed the other side again, and it slid back into place, with a sucking, sealing sound like the closing of a refrigerator door.

The sky was just lightening, though, so Rhaenys knew that she didn’t have time to explore. Carefully, she replaced the bit of moulding and tried to align it better than it had been. Creeping back into her now-cold blankets, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to catch as much sleep as she could before breakfast.

~

The next morning was a flurry of activity as the servants began to pack for the tourney. In that confusion, though, Rhaenys found that nobody was paying attention to her. This was priceless time, and she quickly slipped out of the areas reserved for her family and into the rest of the red keep. Rhaenys had been to most of the major areas before, but it was before she remembered, so she hadn’t been keeping a map in her head. 

Still, she vaguely remembered where the kitchens were, and the gardens, and the stables. She knew where the throne room was, too. She planned to avoid it. 

The stairs were a bit of a journey for her, but she managed to make it down two levels before she plopped down for a break. Her tiny body wasn’t really meant for a ton of walking yet, though she felt pretty energetic. The scent of delicious food cooking was her guide, though, so soon enough she hauled herself up and followed it. 

If she had thought that their quarters were busy, the Red Keep kitchens put them to shame. Like a beehive, every person had a task and was running to do it, fearing the sharp lash of the Head Chef’s tongue. It was a great domed room built of reddish stone, with a stone floor strewn with rushes. Rhaenys wondered why for only three seconds before she saw the great globs of oil that sizzled from the great roast at the center of the room absorb into the rushes. They seemed fresh, too, so she assumed that they were swept out and refreshed every night. The countertops and benches were rough wood and black iron, rubbed down to a polish that came not from a finish but from heavy use. Still, they looked fairly new. 

Rhaenys stood just inside of the doorway, pressed against the stone archway in an effort not to be run over. She didn’t realize how much people moved out of the way for her until suddenly they didn’t. 

“Move it, kid,” a teenage boy said as he rushed past her hauling a bag of flour. 

Rhaenys was suddenly aware of just how  small she was, staring at the army of legs blurring past her. She crept along the wall like a spider trying to to be squished until she got to the ovens. Finally, the chef saw her, and swooped her up with one arm before she could string three words together. 

“My lady, what are you doing here? You could get hurt,” he scolded, setting her down on one of the long, roughly hewn benches. “The kitchen is not a playground!” He made a half turn, and shouted, “Morkas! Be  careful  with that knife! And I told you to chop the lamb into half-inch cubes, not quarter-inch cubes!” 

The scullery maid in question, an older woman whose greying hair was pulled severely back, gave him a look that would have killed a whole murder of crows. “They won’t cook evenly if they’re that large, Oswald,” she scolded. “Just because they promoted you to head chef doesn’t mean that I don’t run this kitchen.”

Chef Oswald rolled his eyes. “It does in fact mean that you don’t run this kitchen,  grandma, ” he insisted. 

“If I was actually your grandmother, then you would have to listen to me, you ungrateful asshole,” Marka hissed. Still, she started to chop the meat into larger cubes. 

Rhaenys wasn’t about to let a prime opportunity for ribbing slide past, though. “What does  asshole mean?” she asked, a shit-eating grin on her face. It sounded like a curse word, and she was woefully unaware of those in Westerosi yet.

Oswald looked panicked for a moment, then turned back to her. “How many lemon cakes can I give you to never say that word again?” 

Oh, this man understood how kids work. 

Rhaenys tapped her chin thoughtfully. “This many sounds good.” She held up five fingers. Genuinely, she couldn’t count that high yet in Westerosi. “Is it a very bad word?”

Oswald eyed her with a considering look, his heavy reddish-brown brows drawing together over his eyes. “Very bad,” he said slowly. “What are you doing down here, Princess?” 

Rhaenys shrugged. “I was bored,” she said, swinging her feet. “And I was tired of the nursery. They packed all my toys!” She considered her stomach for a moment. “And I was hungry!” she added, as if she just thought of it now.

Oswald relaxed minutely, and smiled at her. “Well, Princess, unfortunately you can’t play here.”

A plate of lemon cakes appeared almost like magic as one of the boys dropped it next to Rhaenys on the table. She took one, nibbling. “Can I watch, though?” She widened her eyes as far as was reasonable, for maximum effect. 

And just like that, all suspicion melted away. “If you stay  right here , Princess, or wherever I put you, you can watch.”

He turned around again, and melted into the buzzing throng of the kitchen. She did hear a shout, though -- “Jogar, go let the Princess’ nannies know where she is. They’re probably looking for her.”

A skinny boy with a shock of truly red hair scrambled down the hallway in the direction of the Royal Family’s quarters.

With the sweet and tart flavor of lemon cakes melting in her mouth, Rhaenys settled in to watch the barely controlled chaos. 

Food was just beginning to be packed into woven picnic baskets when Lady Josalia finally came to get her. “My lady, you frightened me!” she scolded, brushing crumbs from Rhaenys’ face and dress. Rhaenys was a little bit offended. There weren’t  that many crumbs. “You shouldn’t wander off on your own until you’re a little bit bigger. You could get lost!”

“Not if you show me how to get around,” Rhaenys said with a (admittedly crumb-y) smile. “Then I’ll never get lost!”  So I can get away with this much , she thought. In the books, children seemed to run around the keep without much supervision, so it was only her age and size limiting her. If she proved that she could find her way around without getting into too much trouble, she expected that her freedom would expand accordingly. 

Chef Oswald shouted his way back through the throng to them. “Sorry I didn’t send her back up sooner,” he apologized. “But with the trip coming up, I couldn’t spare anyone more than a page.”

Lady Josalia’s lips thinned. “Well, Oswald, it’s hardly my problem if you don’t have enough help around here.”

The big man didn’t look angry at her snipe, though. Just smaller somehow. Rhaenys glanced back and forth between them. 

“Look, Josie, I…”

“Not here,” Josalia hissed, glancing at the room around them. She gathered Rhaenys up in her arms and turned to leave, then purposefully pushed past Oswald with a whisper. “Two hours. You know where.”

Rhaenys hid her face in Josalia’s shoulder to keep from shrieking. So they were a  thing. As they went up the stairs, she pulled back to look up at the handmaiden’s face. “So, do you like Oswald?” she asked matter-of-factly.  God, I love being a child sometimes.

It was hard for skin as tanned as Josalia’s to turn red, but somehow she managed. “Where did you get that idea, my lady?” she said. 

Rhaenys gave her a disbelieving look. “I’m three, not stupid,” she said frankly.

Lady Josalia burst out in an uncomfortable laugh. “I guess we weren’t very discreet, were we,” she said with a sigh. 

Rhaenys stared up at her, expectantly. “Sooooooooo?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you like-like him?” 

Josalia rolled her eyes. “I like him well enough. He keeps trying to marry me, though.” 

Rhaenys was wide-eyed. “Are you going to?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’ll ever marry,” Josalia said gently. “I don’t really want to be married. I have two older brothers and three older sisters, so there’s no need for me to marry, really.” 

“But Oswald wants to marry you,” Rhaenys said, nodding her head wisely. “So that’s why you’re fighting?”

“Yes. He thinks I won’t marry him because he’s lowborn,” she said conspiratorially. “But I wouldn’t marry him if he were the king. I like my independence.” She tossed her hair back. “And besides, he’s a northerner. If I married him, he’d probably try to control me.”

“Have you talked to him about it?” Rhaenys said. “How do you know he would do that?”

Lady Josalia stopped on the stairwell and looked at Rhaenys, then, the same way that Oswald had looked at her earlier. “It’s the culture here, Princess,” she said, finally. 

Rhaenys cocked her head to the side. “So?” 

“I suppose we haven’t had a full conversation about it,” she mused, pulling her eyes away to look past Rhaenys out one of the slitted windows. She refocused back to Rhaenys, then, and tapped her on the nose. “Aren’t you a little matchmaker, then.”

Rhaenys blushed much easier than Josalia did.

~

Only two days into their trip, and Rhaenys was  done with the wheelhouse. She had been motion-sick for the entire time, and it was somehow both stuffy and hot even with the windows open. Staying in there for longer than an hour was starting to make her stomach clench and her head pound. “Mama, can I ride outside with Ser Jamie,” she begged, for what felt like the thousandth time. “Just for a little while?”

Mama gently wiped away some of the sweat from the back of my neck with her handkerchief. “It’s too hard for you, little wren.”

“I don’t care,” Rhaenys insisted. “I just want to see outside.”  It hurts in here. The creaking of the wheelhouse didn’t do much for her comfort either. Every moment in here felt as if the walls could collapse in on her at any moment. 

Mama sighed. “Don’t you want to play with your toys?” she wheedled.

If Rhaenys had been a normal nearly four-year-old, she might have been talked out of riding with that temptation. Playing with her mother happened more rarely, lately, due to Aegon. Mother wasn’t allowing any wet nurses to nurse him, so she had been very tired. 

The next lurch of the carriage disabused her of that notion. “Please, Mama?”

Mama sighed, and leaned out the carriage window. “Ser Jamie, Rhaenys wants to ride with you again.”

“Of course, your grace,” Jamie said with a smile, waving for the carriage to stop. 

Rhaenys fairly bounded out of the carriage, barreling straight up to Ser Jamie’s tall white horse. One of the footmen picked her up and handed her to him, where she was settled against his white breastplate. 

“Are you sure you want to ride with me, your grace? It will be more comfortable in the wheelhouse,” Jamie said, as the caravan started up again. 

Rhaenys shook her head. “The wheelhouse makes me sick,” she said imperiously. “And you can’t  see anything.”

“There isn’t much to see, your grace,” Jamie disagreed. 

“Not true!” Rhaenys pointed off to the side. “There are squirrels there, and fields with people working.” She took a deep breath. “And it smells really different from home.”

Jamie choked off a laugh. “Quite different than the sea, your grace.” 

They rode in companionable silence for the next thirty minutes, breaking it only when Rhaenys decided to ask what something -- a tree, an animal -- was called. Finally, though, Rhaenys got the courage to ask the question she’d been trying to ask for two days. “Ser Jamie, can you keep a secret?” she asked.

“Of course, your grace,” Jamie said easily. 

Rhaenys bit her lip. She’d thought long and hard about who to talk about her “dreams” with. Though she loved Father, she knew that revealing she had dreams of “prophecy” would probably only end in him hyperfocusing on “the prince that was promised”. She’d heard him arguing with Mama about it a few times. It was all he wanted to talk about these days. And… it hurt her to think about it, but it was entirely likely that he would allow everything to pass as it did in her dreams, if it meant the prophecy would be fulfilled. His actions in the book showed as much.

She would probably tell Mama at some point, but she also knew that Grandfather wouldn’t allow them to leave for Dorne. Likely, leaving for Dorne might push him to do something crazier than expected. She’d asked a couple days before if they could go visit Dorne, and the shadow in Mama’s eyes had lined up with what she remembered from the books. And until the tourney  happened , she didn’t even know if what she “remembered” from her past life was truly going to come to pass. 

But Jamie, perhaps she could trust. He was straightforward enough to believe her, and honorable enough to not try and “use” her gift. More importantly, he occupied a unique space. His father was the Lord of the Westerlands. He was on the Kingsguard. Though he didn’t act like it, there was a lot of power he could wield if he chose to. 

“I’ve been having really weird dreams,” Rhaenys started, choosing her words carefully. “And I don’t understand them, I think.”

Ser Jamie’s voice came from above her. “What sort of dreams, my lady?”

“Um… well, about things that haven’t happened? Like, that something bad is going to happen at the tournament,” Rhaenys said in a small voice. 

“I’m sure it’s just nervousness, my lady,” Jamie said, glancing down at the top of her curly head. “Tourneys are quite safe.”

“Not that kind of bad, Ser Jamie,” Rhaenys bit her lip. “Um… like I said, I don’t really understand. Something about a crown of blue flowers. And, um, Mama is crying a lot. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Jamie sighed. “Don’t worry, my lady. We won’t let Princess Elia cry.” 

“Okay,” she said, and focused on the rolling motion of the trotting horse. Rhaenys had expected that nobody would believe her, at first. That was why, with the first few people she told, she planned to seed a few things that, if her memory of the story was correct, would happen. Once they happened, though, hopefully that would change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I have had no less than 3 comments about it in a week, YES, I do know that Jamie isn't a Kingsguard at this point. However, Rhaenys does not. She is overly relying on information she "remembers" at the moment, but that information is not always correct. She is not always right about things and people, because she is human, and relying on the memories of a story she read/watched for a very short period of her previous life. This will have consequences. It's why "unreliable narrator" is in the tags.


	3. Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys finds that when two or more lords gather together, the game of thrones begins.

When the caravan finally arrived at Harrenhal, night had nearly fallen. In the gray twilight, the twisted, melted towers of Harrenhal seemed even more frightening than Rhaenys had imagined. Like the fingers of some giant ogre, the five towers of Harrenhal reached above their pockmarked walls as if they were trying to grab at the moon hanging low over the horizon.

Rhaenys had wheedled her way onto a horse again - Ser Arthur's, this time - and flattened her back against his white-and-silver breastplate as it loomed closer and closer. "It looks like there are scary things there," she whispered.

Ser Arthur laughed. "It just looks that way. Lord Whent and his household are quite hospitable, I hear."

"Do we have to stay in the castle?" Rhaenys said quietly. "I could sleep in the wheelhouse!"

"I thought you hated the wheelhouse, Rhaenys," Ser Arthur said, poking a gloved finger into her side.

"Only when it's _moving,_ " she muttered rebelliously.

The evening was chilly, but Mama had wrapped her up in a deceptively warm, silky cloak against the spring chill. She was wearing two pairs of socks as well. She wasn't nearly as uncomfortable on horseback as she had been at the beginning of the week. Because she was generally passed back into the wheelhouse after an hour or so, she was managing to develop tolerance for the discomfort before she developed saddle sores.

There sound of trumpets greeted their arrival, and as Rhaegar and the King passed through the great gates, the sound was nearly deafening.

The Lord Whent and his household had gathered to greet them, decked out in their cool-weather best and flying a combination of their house banners and the banners of the crown.

One of the knights helped Aerys down from his horse, and almost as one, the entire crowd bowed deeply.

"Your grace, Harrenhal is yours," Lord Whent intoned.

"Rise," Aerys said, his voice rasping over the crowd. "Greetings, Lord Whent. I trust the preparations are going smoothly?"

Though Aerys was trying to cut a regal figure in front of the throng of people, everyone seemed as small as ants with the walls towers looming above them. They just kept going up and up, and Rhaenys had to crane her neck to see the point that almost seemed like they were curling around them. They were in the fist of the giant.

"Yes, your grace," Lord Whent said, straightening. "As you well know, my wife, the Lady Shella Whent, and my four sons and daughter."

The indicated people gave short bows or curtsies, as appropriate.

Aerys' lip curled. "And this is the fair maiden that this tourney is held for?" he said, a dismissive hand swept in the girl's direction.

"Yes, my daughter, the lovely Lady Talla, of house Whent," Lord Whent blustered forward, ignoring the obvious slight against his daughter

From her seat in front of Ser Arthur, Rhaenys looked the girl up and down. She was quite lovely, as a matter of fact. She had honey-brown hair that fell nearly to her waist, pinned away from her face with an elegant net of braids that looked very much like braided lace, seeded with pearls. Her high cheekbones and perfect peaches-and-cream complexion finished the picture of a southron lady. Her hands were neatly tucked in front of her in a white fur ruff, but she could just see the edges of lace that must trim her gloves.

Before Aerys could say anything more, Lady Whent gracefully cut in. "Can we escort you to your rooms? A feast awaits."

"A feast fit for kings, I hope," the king said, eyeing the small, round woman in front of him suspiciously.

"The best that our estate has to offer," Lord Whent promised.

* * *

The smell of roasted meat and sweet baked goods was a good enough guide to the great hall, but their escort was nonetheless appreciated. Rhaenys, Mother, and Aegon were brought to a different end of the table from Grandfather and Father, to sit with Lady Shella, Lady Talla, and the youngest two boys, Doile and Cleyton. They were still a bit older than Rhaenys, but young enough to not be seated with the older two boys in the center of the dais.

The children all sat in very awkward silence before Lady Talla quietly gestured to the very orange pile of mashed potatoes. "You should try the sweet mash," she said, reaching out to spoon some onto Rhaenys' plate. "It's Doile's favorite."

Doile nodded furiously, and seemed glad for any excuse to break the silence. "It's really good! 'Manda, down in the kitchens, always makes it with the first 'tatos of the spring season, and it's _never_ as good late-"

Smoothly, Talla used her spoon to shove a small spoonful of said sweet mash into her brother's mouth with a beatific smile. Her teeth were white and shining in her mouth, like the pearls in her hair. "Don't mind him, my lady," she said smoothly.

Rhaenys reached out to try and grab the serving spoon, but her arm was a little too short. "Lady Josalia, could you get some for me?" she asked, turning to where her handmaid was seated, on her left.

Josalia obliged, the dark, intricate designs she and the other Dornish handmaids had traced on each other's arms and torsos two days before on full display in the long, mustard-yellow traditional two-piece dress she wore. The skirt was nothing but about six yards of sheer mustard-yellow fabric gathered in folds around her waist with the end tossed over one shoulder and connected to the opposite wrist with an intricately detailed enameled cuff. Her top was a short-sleeved, midriff-baring top made of a slightly more opaque fabric encrusted in tastefully placed colorful embroidery that depicted a scene full of colorful exotic birds over a desert oasis.

Rhaenys had watched in awe as they turned something that looked like mud into gorgeous designs that traced paths up their arms and shoulders, while giggling and sharing secrets. She had begged them to do her as well, so she had the small, dark tracing of a flight of birds encircling her wrist. They likely would have done more, but Mama had pulled her away from the group to help select the outfits for the tournament.

Talla tittered, a little covering her mouth. "Aren't you cold, Lady Josalia?"

Josalia spooned the potatoes onto Rhaenys' plate. "Not at all, milady," she said with her distinct Dornish lilt. "We are quite near the fire."" Her eyes slid to the younger girl's dress of fine, pale yellow wool, trimmed with lace with delicate embroidery around the collar and wrists. "And, though rare in your kingdom, silk is very warm."

Talla smiled again, but there was an edge in it. "Is it silk, then?" She turned to Rhaenys and her brothers. "What do you think of Lady Josalia's..." her eyes traced Josalia up and down, from the faint outline of her legs through the sheer skirt to delicate cormorant pendant cradled just over the swell of her breast. "Dress?"

Rhaenys felt distinctly like she was caught between two snarling beasts, each one licking their chops and asking her to come play. Across the table, the two boys exchanged a single glance and started shoveling food into their mouths with fervor. The youngest one opened his mouth to answer, and on instinct Talla snapped, "Not with your mouth full, Cleyton!"

Rhaenys physically shrank down a bit in her chair as the silence, filled only by chewing, became deafening. "I think Lady Josalia's dress is pretty," she said in a tiny voice. "I like the color."

"So you do, sweetling," Josalia cooed, spooning another serving of sweet mash and a slice of roasted meat onto Rhaenys' plate. "The dress was a gift from my oldest brother," She directed at Talla, with the sweetest (and toothiest, somehow,) of smiles. "It's traditional in our area of Dorne." She took the tiniest, most delicate of sips of her wine, her red lips leaving a faint half-moon on her silver goblet. "A little old-fashioned, but I wanted something traditional for such an _auspicious_ event."

Lady Talla's eyes widened, just a little, before she smoothed her temper back into something ladylike. "Well, I suppose it suits you." She took a similar sip of her goblet, flushing faintly.

"There's little that doesn't," Lady Josalia said. "Though I'm sure it would suit you as well." She lifted her dark eyes coyly to meet Lady Talla's soft hazel ones. "Would you like to try one, later?"

Talla flushed pink, down to her collar. "Oh, I d-don't think I could," she stuttered. "My father would never let me wear anything like that."

Josalia rolled her eyes expressively. "Oh, nobody has to _see_ , Lady Talla. You can just try it on in my quarters sometime."

And with that, the tension at the table diffused.

"Oh, would you mind?" Lady Talla said. "I wouldn't want to impose…"

Josalia smiled, genuinely this time. Not like a wolf. "Perhaps in the morning, while they are setting up the tents."

Rhaenys took a hesitant bite of her food, now cold, as she tried to calm her racing heart. The sweet mash was pretty good, after all.

* * *

Josalia settled Rhaenys into bed while Mama nursed Aegon in the wooden chair by the fire. The crackling flames were a comforting sound, as well as the lullaby that Mama hummed. Lady Ashara stood behind her, carefully brushing out Mama's hair in preparation for bed.

"Lady Talla isn't very nice, is she," Rhaenys mused. "Why were you so nice to her?" In her previous life, she was never very good with people. She seemed much better at reading people in this life, though. It was so odd that people's faces could be like books, to be read and interpreted. _Before_ , faces might as well have belonged to statues.

Josalia stilled, then sat back on her heels and regarded Rhaenys again, with that curious look. "Something you should learn, Princess, is that there are very few people who are intentionally cruel without reason." She fluffed up the pillow, then, displeased with the thinness, supplemented it with another. "Once you find out the reason, you can often change their mind about you. Lady Talla is used to being the center of attention, as the only daughter of a Lord. She was afraid that other pretty girls would take that away from her."

Mama chimed in from the fire, Aegon's blonde hair glittering in the firelight. "Lady Talla tried something, Josalia?" she asked, half-turning away from the fire to face them.

Josalia laughed. "Just petty jealousy, Elia. Like Milandra."

Ashara sighed. "Don't make her too angry, Jos."

"She was really nice to her, actually," Rhaenys jumped in. "Even invited her to get ready together in the morning."

"I learned my lesson the first time, Elia," Josalia said. "There are only so many times you can set someone's skirts on fire before they change their ways."

"It was _one_ time," Elia grumbled, tugging the edge of her dressing gown over her exposed breast.

"Once was enough," Josalia said, dark eyes meeting Mama's with a wry look. She pressed a kiss to Rhaenys' forehead, and reached for Aegon. "I'll put him down, Elia. Get to sleep?"

Elia relinquished him reluctantly. Usually she put the children to bed herself, but with the hustle and bustle of the tournament, it was only logical to rely a bit more on her handmaids.

Ashara quietly collected the rest of Elia's things and trailed behind her out of the room.

* * *

Mama and Ashara were there to wake Aegon and Rhaenys up in the morning, bright and early. They were quickly fed and then suited up in the outfits chosen for the first day of the tournament.

Rhaenys was in a long-sleeved cream brocade dress, with a bodice embroidered with ruby-red dragons. The shoes were a sensible black leather, laced up with red laces, paired with a long red hooded cloak lined with dark silk to keep the wool from scratching her skin.

"Are you ready for the tourney, sweetling?" Mama asked, pinning the cloak in place with dragon-shaped pins made of onyx.

"I guess so," Rhaenys sighed. It was starting to make her back and legs hurt, standing so long to be laced into the dress.

"Today is particularly important, you know," Mama said. "There hasn't been a gathering of Lords like this for a long time. Definitely not since you were born." She carefully gathered her up onto the table so that Lady Ashara could begin on her hair.

"Because of winter?" Rhaenys asked, finally giving into the urge to kick out her feet to shake out some of the tension.

"Your grandfather hasn't hosted a tourney at King's Landing in a long time," Mama said, as she pulled the long lacy white infant gown over Aegon's head. "So for many of the lords, this will be the first time they will see you."

Rhaenys winced as Ashara gently pulled at a knot with soft fingertips. "I'll do my best," she said honestly. Secretly, though, she aimed to see as few people as possible. The fewer people who knew her face, the better.

"I know you will, little wren," Mama said, stopping by to drop a kiss on the top of Rhaenys' head. "Now, I have to go get ready. Ashara, are you almost finished?

Ashara nodded. She'd simply pulled Rhaenys' hair away from her face with two spear-shaped barrettes, allowing the long ringlets to drop over her back in a cascade.

A trumpet sounded outside, and Mama rushed to the window to peer out into the foggy morning.

"Sun banners!" came the faint cry from the wall. "Sun banners!"

"Oberyn's party is here!" Elia said, her face lighting up.

* * *

Rhaenys fidgeted in her seat as she stood behind Father and Mama, waiting to be announced and seated for the opening ceremonies. The spring morning was chilly, though, reaching cold fingers under her collar. Rhaenys went to pull up her hood, but Ashara stopped her with one hand, the other occupied with Aegon. "Not now, sweetling," she cautioned. "The crowd wants to see your face. And it wouldn't do to mess up your hair."

Rhaenys rolled her eyes, and instead went to huddle a bit in Ashara's skirts for warmth. She hadn't seen hide or hair of the Lady Josalia this morning, as she had 'other things' to take care of today.

Ashara's dress was in her house colors, a soft lilac dress of painted silk that was tight around the bodice and upper arms but flared out into layers and layers of skirt, gathered in loose pleats. She was also wearing plenty of petticoats as well, causing the skirt to spread out around her in a loose trumpet shape that constantly shifted with every movement, like the rippling of the sea. Tiny shooting stars, painted in silver against the silk, caused the skirt to glimmer and shimmer like the ocean.

Finally, the trumpet sounded and the footmen announced them. "And now… for the royal family! The young Prince and Princess: Aegon Targeryen and Rhaenys Targeryen, escorted by the Lady Ashara Dayne and Ser Arthur Dayne!"

Rhaenys took a deep breath, tried to fight the sinking feeling in her stomach, and stepped out onto the empty wooden dais. They stood up there for a moment as the Lords and Ladies of Westeros bowed to them, arrayed in a brilliant display of colors and styles. As they straightened, Rhaenys felt her heart rate rise with every new pair of eyes trained on her.

Hesitantly, she lifted a shaky hand to wave, and a ripple of giggles and coos broke out over the crowd. Rhaenys blushed, turning as red as her dress. She wished that the dais would crack open underneath her so she could fall through.

Ashara ushered her down the steps on the other side, to the box that was reserved for the women and children of the royal family.

The eyes followed her, then jerked away as the announcer cleared his throat and began again. "The Prince of Dragonstone, Rhaegar Targeryen and Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne and the Seven Kingdoms, escorted by Prince Llewen Martell of Dorne and Ser Oswell Whent, of our very own Harrenhal!"

Mama and Father walked out onto richly painted wooden dais, to a stronger roar of cheers and clapping.

They were both radiant, with Father in his elegant black-and-red doublet entwined with golden dragon embroidery, and Mama with her brilliant goldenrod yellow overgown that draped dramatically over the shoulders and was held in place only by two sets of golden cords that gathered the folds of sheer wool around her waist. Her underdress was black, gathered at the throat and wrists by golden circlets and closely following the lines of her body. Where the goldenrod yellow overdress dropped in the front, there was an embroidered motif of a gold-and-silver sun.

They were both wearing simple circlets as well, in entwined gold and silver, set with tiny rubies.

After giving the crowd a moment to bow and ogle them, they too made their way over to the box.

Mama settled down and motioned for Ashara to hand her Aegon and cuddled him close to her chest.

Everyone's attention turned again as the announcer began his final announcement. "Announcing Aerys Targeryen II, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, escorted by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Gerold Hightower!"

The stairs creaked as Aerys made his way onto the dais, resplendent in a black doublet slashed to reveal the red silk beneath. His crown was golden, set with rubies like Father and Mama's, but intricately moulded for each spike to be a spurt of flame from a dragon's mouth.

Very few cheers met his arrival as everyone immediately fell into deep bows, and only rose when the king commanded them.

Instead of making his way to his box, however, it was traditional for the king to hear requests and make a few proclamations before the tournament began.

"People of Westeros," Aerys began, his voice rasping out over the crowd. "Lord Walter Whent has been so gracious as to host this tourney for the nameday of his maiden daughter, the Lady Talla Whent. I bless the proceedings of said event, and will, as tradition dictates, grant one wish, within reason, to the winners of each event." His face twisted a bit as he mentioned said tradition before continuing. "Now, as many of you know, I need to name a new Kingsguard after the death of Ser Harlan Grandison, sadly passed from illness."

Father sat up in his chair, his eyes narrowing. Mama leaned over and whispered "Did he say anything about naming a new Kingsguard today?" Rhaenys overheard.

"Not to my knowledge," Father whispered back, his silver hair falling over one side of his face to hide his lips. "Though, I have my suspicions…"

"Ser Jamie Lannister, will you please come forward!"

Whispers broke out across the crowd, but Rhaenys was confused. Wasn't he already a member of the Kingsguard? He'd ridden with them from King's Landing, after all. And he was a Kingsguard for them in the memories she had.

She tugged on Ashara's sleeve, but she was staring at the dais, ashen-faced. She exchanged glances with Ser Arthur, whose mouth was set into a grim line.

"Lord Hand will be very displeased," Ashara said to him quietly.

Ser Jamie jumped over a barrier where several other notable lords and ladies were seated. Now that Rhaenys was actually looking, his armor was not white, but a pale silver inlaid with a golden lion.

She bit her lip and gnawed on it for a moment, trying to remember. But as hard as she searched her memories, no event like this came to mind. She remembered vaguely that the King had named him as a kingsguard to undermine Tywin, but she'd heard no mention of Tywin at the castle in the few days she had been there.

Fear crashed over her, so much that she nearly didn't catch the next words.

"Ser Jamie Lannister, you have proven yourself a knight of great skill and potential," the King intoned, with the facsimile of a generous smile. His pale purple eyes flashed with some other emotion, though. "I hereby name you Ser Jamie Lannister, Kingsguard." He nodded to a nearby servant. "The cloak."

A servant hurried up, handing a package to Ser Hightower.

"Ser Hightower, if you please," the king said, motioning down to where Jamie stood.

Jamie was wide-eyed and full of joy, was practically vibrating in place as he stood before the king.

Ser Hightower made his way down before Jamie, his pristine white cloak picking up the moisture from the morning dew on the tender spring clover. "Kneel, Ser Jamie," He said, his quiet voice echoing throughout the arena.

Over Jamie's bowed head, he began. "Do you, Ser Jamie, swear to protect the royal family from any harm or threat, defend their honor and keep their secrets, and forgo any lands or inheritance once granted to you. Will you father no children and devote all of your days to the service to the King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, and all those of his blood?"

Jamie took a moment, and lifted his head to meet Ser Hightower's eyes before reciting the oath that he had obviously dreamt of giving for a long time. "Hear my words and bear witness to my vow. On this day, I swear my life to the King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. I shall protect the royal family from all harm or threat and defend their honor and secrets. I shall live and die at the word of the king, no matter the command. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. I am the shield which defends the Iron Throne. I am the sword that defeats the king's enemies. I pledge my life and honor to the Iron Throne, and the blood of the one that inhabits it, for this day and all the days to come."

The commoners in the crowd began clapping wildly as Ser Hightower swung the white cloak around Jamie's shoulders, unclasping the red cloak in a move not unlike a marriage ceremony.

"Presenting Ser Jamie Lannister, of the Kingsguard!" Ser Hightower bellowed, ushering Jamie up to the dais to take a position behind the king.

A ripple of unease went through the crowd, as Aerys had obviously intended for it to do.

No one is safe, this pronouncement said. The King can lay claim to the heir of the Hand of the King, to any of the sons and daughters of the realm.

Rhaenys shuddered physically at the sense of disruption that this set off in the crowd, as the whispers spread. Even the commoners, many of whom did not understand the significance of this announcement, felt the unease, as the clapping petered off uncertainly. Still more, a new fear curdled in her gut.

Her memories were not reliable.

How else could she have made such a mistake? Making decisions based on her memories would have to take more careful deliberation than she was using. I can't make assumptions about people based on my memories, Rhaenys thought, hiding her face in her white fur muff. Next time could be much more dangerous than being caught off guard.


End file.
